University of Santa Clara - Redwood Yearbook (Santa Clara, CA)

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10 THE KEDWOOD. Above and below there ' s a rumble, Then a mighty and deafening roar Like the wild Titian ' s horrible grumble Or the waves as they dash on the shore. And the mountain-top angrily thundered, As if fires of hell were set free. And the home of my boyhood was plundered On that sweet little isle in the sea. Oh ! the sad, sick ' ning thoughts of the morrow, As I gazed on the bleak St. Pierre ! Oh! the pangs and the heart-rooted sorrow, As I heard the dread shouts of despair I All my fond hopes forever are broken, And chaos reigns over the lea. And scarcely remains there a token Of that sweet little isle of the sea! Alas, I am weeping and sighing, — For the dead, who have gone to their graves I I am counting my dear ones as dying And my tears mingle deep with the waves ; But they live, and they shall live forever, They are waiting and waiting for me. Where the bonds of our love naught will sever. On the shore of Eternity ' s sea. JOHN mORDAN, ' 05.

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THE REDWOOD. THE nSHER OF ST. PIERRi:. Thou art just, oh my God, Thou are holy, And Thy spirit rules over the sea; Thou contemnest not those who are lowly, When in prayer they appeal to Thee ; Then despise not my sore stricken nation. Turn Thine eyes of compassion on me. As I weep o ' er the sad desolation Of that sweet little isle of the sea. My heart, it is wounded and bleeding. And my utterance choked with grief, And my tears fall in sad, silent pleading At Thy throne, where I know there ' s relief. For my home has been ruined and wasted. Where my dear ones were watching for me, Where the joys of my childhood were tasted, — In that sweet, little land of the sea. I can see there my loved ones still waiting And sighing until my return, While my ship on the lone strand is grating. And my heart with affection doth burn ; — I can see them around the poor table. With their jests and their pranks of glee, ' Neath the quaint and the old-fashioned gable In the sweet little isle of the sea. But, alas ! the dread signal is given, And the angel of death passeth by And, begirt with the anger of heaven. Regards not the sob nor the sigh. A harvest of souls he is reaping. Some sinful, and some from sin free . And there ' s sobbing and sighing and weeping In that sweet little isle of the sea.

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THE REDWOOD. 11 THE COLLISION. It was on one of those calm, quiet nights, when the very silence causes a feeling of suspicion and fear to creep over the mind of man, that Dave Hatheway.the sturdy engineer of many years ' service, met with a. terrible experience, the very recital of which, evei at this day, sends a cold chill through the veins of the listener. Dave was a brave fellow, but withal a firm adherent to the belief that the destin y of mortals is dependent on and de- termined by those external occurrences which are commonly called portentous. The night before the accident he had an awful dream, and on his way to Avork he passed on what he considered; the wrong side of a telegraph pole. ' ' Jim, ' ' he said ; as he stepped into the engine, addressing his fireman, I wish this ride were called off, I feel as if something is going to happen, and, to tell the truth, I ' m a little shaky. Nonsense, replied the other, trying to dis- guise his own fear (for anything that went wrong with Dave al ways affected him.) Don ' t be foolish, old boy. There ' s nothing U. fear a night like this. ' ' Oh, I ' ll go all right, but I wish I hadn ' t dreamt so. In a few minutes the train was rumbling along in the foot- hills of the Mexican Sierras, which, for their irregularity, ar - not by any means an ideal place for railroad travel. It was a cattle train and so there was a sense of lonesomeness in the hearts of Dave and Jim as the cars wound in and out through the hills like a gigantic serpent,now dodging around a bluff, now shooting through a gap to avoid a longer detour, or puffing up a somewliat steeper grade chosen in preference to a deeper cut; and then rattling down on the opposite side with a creaking of the brakes. Occasionally the track doubled back on itself, runniui: ' ; for a few more miles in the opposite direction. Such was the roa l on which Dave Hatheway had his heart-rending experience, and over which he had driven his engine on many and many worse nights than the present, but he will go over it no more. He was going ahead at a lively pace, when, the road suddenly changing, he rounded a curve where the track, sloping gently to- wards the brow of a hill, ran through a narrow cut, which had been made for it. But, oh, horror ! there at the end of the cut,